


A multifaceted response to loss

by Sunnyrea



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Horror, M/M, Original Character(s), Potentially triggering, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war with Samaritan ends with both A.I.s eradicated while the team’s only loss is Harold. John runs back to Iris in an attempt to move on with a normal life but before long he starts to hallucinate Harold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A multifaceted response to loss

**Author's Note:**

> AU story line, but really only somewhat. I started writing early in season 5 airing as a ‘what if they did this’ and couldn’t stop writing. I figure I should get it out now before the real end to our show. Also, I clearly like to torture people in my writing. I apologize in advance.

John stands on the stoop of Iris Campbell's house for a full minute before he finally rings the doorbell. It only takes ten seconds for her to open the door and blow out a surprised breath at seeing him there.

“Hello, Iris.”

“I have to say,” Iris says as she stands in her doorway, “I never expected to see you again, John.”

“I didn't expect you to be waiting.”

Her mouth pinches slightly in reproach and John knows he said the wrong thing. “I wasn't waiting, John,” Iris says then her posture shifts and she smiles. “But I am here.”

She takes a step back and allows John inside.

––––

John never thought much about afterward. John always assumed he would die. He never considered, especially after he walked away from Iris, what he might do if somehow he lived through their war. Maybe the numbers would keep going and it would be like when he first met Finch again. Perhaps there would no more A.I.s and they would all become freelance vigilante heroes or private detectives or some happy house in the country; Harold Finch's home for reformed assassins. What he never considered, never even contemplated as possible, was that Harold should die and John live. He never imagined seeing Harold dead – blood on his hands, Shaw rushing headlong like a madwoman into bullets and Root clutching at her head as the Machine screeched in rage and horror while all John could do was watch the blood flow and Harold's eyes die. He never thought about what he would do – how he could possibly survive – if Harold were to die.

But the war finished, the A.I.s shattered together and Harold did die. So John has to decide what to do. Root and Shaw have each other but John can barely stand to look at them.

“Even without the Machine,” Root says, “even...” her voice cracks, “even without Harold we can...”

John shoots her a scathing look so her mouth shuts.

“Reese, you can't just leave,” Shaw snaps.

“I can't stay here.”

With a black hole inside of him threatening to suck his whole soul inside, John goes to Iris. He may have left her behind but he never truly wronged her and she never knew Harold.

––––

“So, here we are, John.” John smiles once at Iris as she swirls the ice around in her water. “You show up at my door and now here we are at dinner. Would you like to give me a bit of context?” She takes a sip of her water. “I know it's not your strong suit.”

John clears his throat. “What I told you before.”

“What little you told me,” she interrupts.

“It's over now,” John finishes.

Iris frowns. “Over?”

“The people I was trying to stop, the... the war I was involved in.” Iris face shifts and John sees the small tendril of anger she was nursing evaporate. “We won, as much as we could, so it's over now.”

“And you've come back to me?”

John folds his hands together on the table and looks at his plate, empty and white and too shinny for his tarnished soul. “You know me, Iris, and that's more than anyone else in this world.”

Iris stares at him for a long moment. “What happened, John? Were you...” Her eyes shift down and over his body as much as she can see with the table between them. “Were you hurt?”

John swallows once then shakes his head. “Not me.”

“Someone else?”

John clears his throat and thinks about now, not then. “I want a chance for us to start over, Iris.”

She purses her lips. “You and I?”

“I know I left, I know I gave up on us but it wasn't safe at the time.”

“Will it ever be safe, John?”

“It is now.”

She touches her fork, slides it up and down on the table once before she looks up again. “You say that John, but what happens when there is something new, someone else you feel you have to save?”

“I can't save everyone,” John says harshly so Iris' brow knits. John clears his throat again then sits up straighter. “I just want to be a cop now.”

Iris smiles slowly. “You're not a real cop, John.”

John feels himself smile just a bit in response. “I can try to be. And I can try with us, if you'll let me.”

She breathes in slowly and tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “How do I know you won't go and leave me again, John, when things get difficult?”

John stares at her. “I have nowhere else to go, Iris.”

––––

It only takes two months of dinner dates, the occasional walk in the park and even a movie before John leaves his stark 'John Riley' apartment to move in with Iris. Her house is small but John never needed much space and she easily rearranges to accommodate him. Iris buys a second dresser for their bedroom, shifts some of her dresses around to offer John space in the closet. John has few possessions beyond his suits and too many guns. Most of the guns go to a storage locker though a few find their way to discrete locations around the house Iris is sure to never find.

“What about, Bear?” Shaw asks him when the three of them meet at Shaw's third favorite Chinese restaurant. 

“What about him?”

“If you're going off to play house husband this shared custody thing won't work so well.”

Root glances at Shaw as Shaw shoves a dumpling into her mouth. “What Shaw is trying to get at is that Bear is a bit down now that Harry is –”

“Harold,” John interrupts tersely. “He never liked when you called him Harry.”

Root raises her eyebrows but does not comment. She clears her throat and gestures at the dog at their feet. “He's known you the longest.”

“And he gets along well with all of us. He doesn't know Iris. Better he stay with you two.”

John slides over and stands up out of the booth but Shaw grabs his arm before he steps away. “You shutting us out, is that it? Without Harold are we just leftovers to you?”

John pulls his arm away. “Take care of Bear, don't feed him too many of those giant bones.”

John brings no photographs, no mementos. He keeps his memories where they belong, locked away.

“Not even a book, John?” Iris asks when he brings over his one bag.

John folds all his cotton shirts in one drawer, underwear in another and balls his socks into pairs in the top drawer. He owns two watches which sit side by side on top of the dresser. Iris buys him a comb to go with them and all the necessary toiletries for the bathroom.

“I know you shower,” Iris chides.

John carries one thing with him from the subway, a laptop. He puts it away in the bottom drawer of his dresser and never uses it. Sometimes, when Iris is out late with a client, John opens the drawer and looks at it, as if the laptop might have something to say, as if it might miss its owner as much as John does.

––––

Iris and John often take walks through Central Park. The park is an easy distance from the station and obviously the biggest source of nature in the city.

“It’s peaceful but busy too,” Iris says. “I like the city bustle but with trees instead of taxis honking.”

John, on the other hand, enjoys getting out of the station for reasons other than crime. “Good to get some fresh air.”

This response always makes Iris laugh. “Not sure you ever get fresh air in the city.”

There is a problem with Central Park, however.

_“The Machine is everywhere…”_

One of the first times John ever met Harold was in Central park. Every time he passes a lamp post with a camera mounted on it he hears Harold telling him about the Machine. He sees Harold sitting on a certain bench beside John, talking about a number. He sees Harold letting Bear off the leash to have his first doggy play date. He sees Harold at Bethesda Fountain. He remembers a joke he made with Harold about birds at the Falconer statue; Harold rolling his eyes and remarking, ‘because the bird jokes don’t get old.’ 

“John?” Iris touches his arm and brings him back. “Lost you for a second there.”

John sees Harold from every moment, in every place, hears every conversation they had in replay under each tree, over every bridge, past every man made body of water. Though Iris talks beside him, holds his hand, even makes him laugh, the sound of her voice cannot overpower the sound of Harold.

––––

When John kisses Iris sometimes he thinks of Harold instead. 

John likes Iris, she is smart, beautiful and she understands him at least on a certain level. She could see through his cover ruse to the fact he was not a cop then kept that secret, so that is something. She might be as close as he can come to someone normal who will accept him.

But she is not Harold; she will never be the man who brought him back from the dark, gave him a purpose, valued him for more than just his trigger finger, saved his life and wanted to keep it. She won't have Harold's genius, his smile, the look Harold would give him when John would come back alive against the odds yet again. 

“John...” Iris says softly against his lips. 

John thinks of Harold's lips. He imagines short hair beneath his hand. He thinks of Harold's chest against his own and Harold's lips pressing harder into his.

“Oh, John,” Iris breathes out and John touches red hair instead, feels her smooth skin at his cheek.

When Iris lies beneath John in their bed, sometimes John closes his eyes to Harold. He touches Harold's face, free of his glasses and only bright blue eyes looking up at him. 

Then Iris arches up, her breasts against his chest, and John kisses her lips. He slides his hands down her smooth sides and repeats 'Iris, Iris, Iris' in his head to block out Harold's face.

––––

At first, it is just something out of the corner of his eye, like a shadow. He thinks he sees a familiar shape walking by or someone waiting for him just out of sight. He tells himself he does not know; he does not understand what is happening – who is coming – but he does, right from the start. There is no one else living so heavily in his mind.

––––

“I want to ask you something, John,” Iris says to him one day as she puts away files from some client in their home office.

John purses his lips. “Let me guess, something psychiatrist–like?”

Her lips rise into a smile briefly before she appears serious again. “It's about what happened to you.”

John crosses his arms. “What happened to me?”

“When you left me before.” John's jaw tightens. Iris raises her eyebrows and leans back against the desk. “You said it was a war; I saw a little but you never told me what really happened, who it was you were fighting.”

“Iris, I can't...”

“That's not what I want to talk to you about.” John frowns. “I want to talk about who you lost.”

John cannot stop himself from stiffening slightly but beyond that he stays stock still. “Who I lost?”

“I know you lost someone, John, in whatever fight this was; someone close to you.”

John frowns, imagines throwing her through the window for just a moment. “You don't know anything about it.”

“I know you, maybe not everything that's happened to you but I know your tells.” John glances at the door but stays where he stands. Iris stands up straight again but she does not step closer. “You told me once about a cop you knew who died in the line of duty. You were making that same face when you showed up on my door step months ago. You make that same face sometimes now; when we're in the park or when you think I'm not watching you.”

John straightens up, adjusts his suit jacket. He shakes his head and does not look at her. “What do you want me to say, Iris?”

“I want you to talk about it. I want you to tell me about whoever it was. John...” She steps closer and touches his arm so he looks down at her. “I want you to really trust me because I want to help you.”

“You can't help me, Iris. Not with this.”

“You don't know that until you tell me.” She smiles and drops her hand. “Please, John, just...” She sighs and her voice quiets. “Who did you lose?”

Over Iris’ shoulder, John suddenly sees Harold. Harold stands behind her, just to the left of the window. He looks back at John, glasses in place, arms by his side and his back against the wall. He smiles at John.

John shuts his eyes and breathes in sharply through his nose, tries to calm his heart rate.

“John?”

John opens his eyes as Iris touches his face. He looks over her shoulder to the bare, white wall behind her. Harold does not stand there, only beams of sunlight, just a trick of his mind. 

––––

John dreams about the day they lost Harold, about that exact moment. He tries to lucid dream, tries to force himself to change the events and give Harold breath once more. He fails every time and every time Harold dies all over again – a sudden shout and blood and his glasses cracking in half and the word 'John' on his lips as he falls.

If John is lucky, he kisses Harold goodbye and holds him while he bleeds.

More often he is not lucky and Root and Shaw bodily tear him apart while Harold's empty eyes watch.

––––

“This is it,” Fusco says as they stop in front of what could be best described as a discount RadioShack. “Manger says that Danie was here until seven PM last night. Should be in now.”

“We should find out if there are cameras inside,” John says. 

“If they sell the damn things, be pretty stupid if they're not using them too.”

“Well, a lot of people are pretty stupid Lionel.”

Fusco scoffs. “Don't I know it.” He taps John on the chest. “And don't forget your badge, not like you earned it but I think you're getting better at using it.”

“Thanks, Fusco,” John replies dryly.

Fusco chuckles as he grabs the door handle of the store. John glances behind them as Fusco opens the door. There should not be anyone tailing them or any surprises with the case. The homicide appears to be family related, probably a crime of passion with little planning. However, John wants his instincts to remain intact.

As he starts to turn back toward Fusco, John sees Harold standing on the other side of the street. John freezes, counts in his head and tries not to blink. Harold remains standing in front of a shop window. John hits the count of five and breaks into a run.

“What are… hey, Riley!” Fusco shouts from behind him.

John bolts across the street. A truck passes in front of Harold and a taxi honks its horn at John. John stops in the middle of the road to narrowly avoid a Honda then he rushes forward again as the truck frees his line of sight. John hits the sidewalk on the other side, panting. He stares at his own reflection in the window of the Starbucks. He turns his head left then right. He sees no shorter man with a good suit and glasses in either direction.

“Riley, what the hell?”

John turns to Fusco now standing beside him. Another taxi driver honks and curses in Farsi at Fusco and John from his window as he drives away.

“I thought I...”

“Thought what?” Fusco gasps, his breathing off from running after John. “Thought you wanted to play chicken with some cabbies? Hate to break it to you, pal, you'll lose.”

John shakes his head. “I thought I saw...” He huffs and straightens his jacket. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

“That's some sprint you've got for nothing.”

John shakes his head. “Let's interview the suspect.”

“John, what are you –”

“Forget it, Lionel, let's just do our jobs.” 

John holds up his hand to stop the next oncoming car so he can walk back across the street again. He hears Fusco sigh but follow behind him. John refuses to look back at the spot where he saw Harold.

––––

John fumbles with the keys to the front door. The case today involved a fifty–six year old male murdered by his daughter. The victim had square glasses and his tall daughter had long brown hair. John's hands shook for an hour afterward in his pants pockets. On the third try, John fits the keys into the lock and opens the door. John blows out a breath, flips the lock behind him again then puts the keys in the glass bowl on the hall table. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket. He stares at it for a long moment, the worn leather, the ripped corner from Bear; Harold bought him the wallet for a birthday.

“John?”

John puts the wallet abruptly down on the table. John walks down the hall into the living room. The news plays on the TV low enough that John has to read the newscaster's lips to interpret.

“Hey.” Iris walks into the room wiping her hands on a dish cloth. “Made some pasta.”

“Made?”

She smirks. “I am getting much better at cooking, thank you very much.” She points at him with the towel. “You could help you know. We can't always have takeout.”

John's expression shifts because he remembers Harold saying almost the exact same thing to him once. 

_'Man cannot live on takeout alone, Mr. Reese.'_

_'What do you have in mind then, Harold?'_

Harold smiled at him and John remembers the playful quirk of his lips which anyone rarely saw. 

_'I could cook you something, Mr. Reese, do you prefer penne or fettuccini?'_

“John?” John's eyes snap back to the present and focus on Iris. Iris's eyes tick up and down him once. She frowns slightly then tosses the towel toward a cushioned chair in the corner.

“John, are you all right?”

John nods, glancing at the TV. “Fine, long day.”

“I can tell when you lie, John.” John looks back at her and stops himself from saying 'no, you can't.' Iris continues. “This isn't about your day at the office either; you keep making that face, that 'my past is haunting me' face.”

“I work in homicide, Iris, it's –”

“I know what it is, John, I'm a therapist for cops.”

John smiles his CIA spy smile. “I'm fine, Iris.”

“No, you're not.” She steps around the couch so she stands in front of him. “It's okay if you don't want to talk to me about it but you should talk to someone. I can recommend a number of good therapists.”

“You know that word 'therapy' tends to put people on edge.”

Iris cocks her head and crosses her arms. “John, part of being with me means that you need to take care of yourself. I can't watch you go crazy under my roof and do nothing. I'm not that kind of person.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me you will talk to someone, tell me you will let out whatever it is that is eating you up inside.”

John sighs, stares at his clean shoes then looks up again at Iris. Harold stands behind her. He leans back against dining room table, his arms crossed over his chest. John stares at Harold, does not breathe, counts to four. The dining room is dim, no sunlight from a nearby window or a moving car to block John's view. Then Harold shakes his head ever so slightly from side to side. 

John looks at Iris again. “Just give me time, Iris.”

Over her shoulder, Harold is gone.

––––

John does not always dream about Harold's death. Sometimes he dreams about Harold the way he really wanted him.

In these dreams, Harold is always in control. Harold crowds him into corners, pushes him into chairs, leans him over tables or desks, moves him effortlessly despite being smaller and weaker. The physicality Harold displays in John's dreams never puts him off, never jolts him out of the dreams because of its wrongness, and John never tries to stop him, John does not want to.

John leans into Harold's rough kisses against walls. He holds Harold tight against him when Harold pushes him down and straddles him in an indefinable chair; he locks his hands around Harold's hips as Harold cards his hands through John's hair and whispers, 'remember me, John' through kisses. He begs Harold to touch him, to claim him in every sense, as Harold pulls off John's belt and unbuttons his pants.

Harold slides into him, fucks him over the table in the library or the creaky wooden desk in the subway; it is never soft beds or pillows or anything romantic. In his dreams they always have sex in adverse environments, in their hideouts and workplaces, in the very symbols of the war which took Harold away. Anything involving intimacy or love is irrevocably wrapped up in trauma.

––––

The first time John hears Harold speak he sits at his desk in the precinct dutifully filling in paperwork. Fusco sits across from him, phone at his ear clearly on hold. He catches John's eye for a moment then rolls his own before turning back to stare at the papers on his desk. John breathes in once then returns to his own paper work.

He writes in details of his chase of a suspect and the subsequent arrest. The subject was a teenager who should not have been able to get a hold of a gun. The perpetrator attempted to hold up a connivance store then shot one of the customers. It makes John's heart heavy that their criminals seem to get younger and younger. He puts his pen down and rubs a hand over his eyes.

Then he hears, “It's all right, John, you are doing what you can.”

John jolts up, knocking his inbox onto the floor with a clang, scattering papers and folders all around his desk.

“What?” Fusco snaps in surprise, already half standing from his desk. “Riley, what?”

John stares at the air beside him, hands pressing hard into the desk so the tips of his fingers are white. No one stands beside him, no one near enough to whisper in his ear. It would not have mattered if there were because John knows that voice almost better than his own. The voice was Harold.

––––

John sits in their home office on the second floor. The bigger desk sits in front of a window toward the front of the house. John sees four parked cars along the street which have not moved in at least a month; the trash pickup is late again; a pair of college students walk under a street lamp across the street ten minutes later than they did yesterday; the clock on the wall beside the window reads eight–fifteen but John's computer puts the time at twenty–seventeen.

John sighs and closes his finished arrest statistic report for the week. He attaches the report to an e-mail in the NYPD system and hits send to his captain. He waits while the e-mail clocks.

“You should defragment your computer, John.”

John swallows and his eyes tick to the left. Harold sits in a chair beside John's desk. He sits stiff and tall as he sometimes did when he was late on his pain meds for the day. John wants to ask him how he feels, if he needs to lie down or if John should get him something. John looks back to his computer screen instead. The e-mail has sent now. John closes the e-mail tab and opens a case he received on Monday, still in process.

“I can show you if you like.” John glances at Harold again. Harold smiles once then gestures toward the laptop with two fingers. “It's only a few steps, just basic computer maintenance."

John wants to tell Harold he knows how to defragment a computer, thank you. 

“I'm not doubting your skills, John.” At that, John turns his head sharply to stare at Harold answering his thoughts. Harold chuckles once. “I remember you were a spy.”

John opens his mouth to retort then closes it again. 

Harold glances at John's computer then back to John. “This isn't my laptop from the subway.” John's jaw clenches. “I could add some improvements to this one.”

John turns his head back to the laptop, focuses on the details of the girl found under a bridge.

“John...”

John shuts his eyes tightly and pretends he cannot hear Harold's voice. 

He thinks of Jessica's smile, he thinks of Joss' sarcastic retorts to his wheedling, he thinks of Iris' comforting hand on his arm. John opens his eyes and looks at the empty chair next to the desk. He feels an unexpected stab of disappointment.

––––

The building super gives Fusco the keys to the apartment with barely a look at the warrant they carry. Fusco leads the way in, two uniformed officers with them, but only perfunctory guns at the ready. Their suspect is already in custody down at the station.

“You want the kitchen or the bedroom?” Fusco asks.

John stares at the apartment, a bag full of dirty laundry pushed against the wall, sneakers tied together hanging off a chair. He tries to decide if he misses working for the CIA compared to this detective work. He knows what he really misses most.

“Riley?”

John's glances at Fusco. “Bedroom.”

Fusco gives him a disappointed frown then turns and walks through the living room toward the open kitchen. John nods at the officers manning the door then makes his way back to the bedroom.

The sheets only cover half of the bed, mostly on the floor. One pillow sits propped up against the wall in the middle of the queen size, no headboard. A light wood dresser stands between two windows. The design is likely IKEA or Target, one of those assemble by number options. An iPhone charger sits on top of the dresser beside a comb with several hairs entwined around it. Two white t-shirts lie in a ball on the floor at the foot of the bed. Apart from these luxurious touches, the room is empty.

“Bachelor pad for the twenty something,” John mutters.

“There is a trashcan too, John.”

John pauses in front of the dresser. He does not turn around to respond to the voice. John looks at the window to his right. A glass of water sits on the windowsill beside what looks like a receipt. He steps over to the window and picks up the piece of paper. The receipt is from Home Depot.

“There could be more in the trashcan, John,” Harold says again.

John turns his head in the other direction. Harold stands beside the dresser, blocking the other window. He points toward the bedroom door.

“I have heard detective work often relies on the simple things one would not usually think of.” Harold shrugs. “Such as thrown away receipts.”

John holds up the receipt in his hand but stops himself from protesting that he already has one. John clears his throat and looks down at the Home Depot receipt. The purchased items include paint thinner, a blow torch, work gloves and, “Gardening sheers,” John says out loud.

“A match to your murder weapon?”

John pulls an evidence bag from his pocket and puts the receipt inside. He thinks he probably should have gloves on to be handling the evidence.

“Well, you didn't go through the police academy, John, I think you are allowed some mistakes.

John presses his lips together tightly and blows out air through his nose. He closes the evidence bag and returns it with the receipt inside to his pocket.

“John, about the –”

John turns and shoots a glare at Harold. Harold raises his eyebrows and shuts his mouth. John stares at him for a moment. Harold smiles quickly and folds his hands. He does not need to say, 'just trying to help' for John to hear it. 

John glances across the bedroom and sees a clear plastic waste paper bin beside the doorway. The bin is three quarters of the way full with trash. John looks at Harold then back to the bin. He sighs and walks across the room to the trashcan. He dumps the container over so the trash spills over the floor. He fishes through the paper and burger wrappers and gum stuck to foil. He finds another Home Depot receipt with duct tape and acetone among the purchased items.

John hears a satisfied 'heh' noise from behind him. When John looks back at the dresser against the wall no one waits to tell John, 'I told you so.'

––––

John wakes up before his alarm, Iris still sleeping beside him. He looks at the clock, just before six AM. Then his eyes focus and he looks past his nightstand. Harold sits on the low table under the window. He smiles in that faint way he used to when he was unsure of John's mood.

“Good morning, John.”

John blinks and stays very still where he lies. He feels strangely self-conscious about his bare chest – not something Harold had not seen before.

“Maybe it's because you're lying in bed,” Harold suggests to John's thought.

John scrunches up his lips but still says nothing back.

“It's all right to miss me,” Harold says softly.

John turns over abruptly to face Iris's back. She breathes slowly, still slumbering. He reaches out and touches her bare back. Her skin above the covers line is cool to the touch. She is real.

When John turns over again, he sees only light streaming through the window onto the surface of the table.

––––

John sits beside Iris in the orchestra section of the New York City opera. John attended an opera once in Italy as part of a mission. He did not so much enjoy the performance as assassinate an audience member in their private box. If he recalls, that opera was by Vivaldi. He cannot remember the name.

Tonight the opera is Puccini, 'Tosca.' The opera house is about three quarters full, more in the orchestra section, no doubt yearly subscribers. John usually finds opera ponderous; fortunately he is fluent in enough languages to understand the plot but arias draw out all the action to the point of absurdity in most cases. However, Iris wanted some culture and finds the music to be more enjoyable than the overly dramatic plot lines.

“I love the Cavaradossi,” Iris whispers to him.

John only murmurs an assent. 

Iris wears pearls around her neck. John thinks of Jackie Kennedy for a moment and bites his lip to keep from chuckling inappropriately. She looks so beautiful in the dim light from the stage, rapt at the tenor's singing.

John turns back to the stage. He wonders what leads one to a life in the opera in the twenty-first century. If one wants to become a famous singer, surely pop or rock music are the better paths? Even traditional musical theater proves better for notoriety.

“But it's not always about the fame, is it?”

John turns his head to the formerly empty seat beside him.

Harold chuckles and looks at the stage again. “Do you remember that stake out in DC?” He glances at John. “You begrudged my opera music in the car.”

John purses his lips and Harold must take the motion as a confirmation because he nods his head. Then he shrugs. “I never did make it to the Kennedy Center.”

The scene switches on the stage, catching John's attention for a minute. He turns back to Harold with an incredulous look. 

“What? Do you need a reason?” Harold frowns dramatically, his voice vaguely imitating John’s. “'What is it about opera, Finch?'“

John bites his lip again to keep from laughing.

Harold grins at him. “Opera is supposed to be about the high drama you bemoan. It is about taking a simple story and giving it exceptional life through the music. It is not just jilted lovers or political intrigue; it is the baring of the character's souls in every word, high notes and low notes and drawn out moments so every feeling drips off the stage into the audience's hearts.”

John find himself smiling fondly.

“Opera,” Harold continues, “is a reminder of another time, another age of life in music.”

Harold sighs in a contented way as he looks back to the stage. He watches the action for a moment then turns to John again.

“How did you know this was one of my favorites?” Harold asks.

John runs his tongue over his bottom lip, tilts his head closer, then answers, “I don’t think I did.”

Harold's grin is slow and wide and his voice is quiet, “you do now.”

––––

“Hey there, John.”

John frowns at himself in the bathroom mirror, cellphone to one ear. “Root?”

“Miss me?”

“What do you want?”

Root makes an incredulous noise. “Bit of a chilly reception for your old team mate.”

John sighs as he attempts to button up his shirt one handed. “If you’re calling, it’s because you want something, Root, so what is it?”

There is a pause where John can see the face Root makes – part worried but mostly annoyed. He hears Shaw snap something about ‘just ask him’ in the background.

“Root,” John prompts.

“Shaw and I were hoping to get your help on a project of ours.”

“Project?”

“Just a bit of freelance work.”

John looks at himself in the mirror again. He should have shaved. “Are you killing someone?”

Root laughs and scoffs at the same time. “Doubt that.” John hears Shaw say ‘maybe’ in the background. Root clears her throat audibly and John hears her throw something, probably a shoe. “The goal is not to kill someone if that’s what you mean.”

“It was.”

“Well, no then.”

John rubs a hand over his face. He opens the medicine cabinet – ibuprofen, face lotion, extra toothpaste, some perfume, comb – and grabs the comb. “I’m a cop now, Root.”

“Not actually.”

“Enough.”

“Because the Machine made you a cop.”

“It seems to have stuck.”

“But,” Root says with a drag on the word, “that means that you do owe Her your current job, bound up in red tape as it may be.”

“And the Machine is gone, Root,” John says as he runs the comb inelegantly over his hair.

“Yes…” John hears a catch in her tone and he wishes he hadn’t been quite so blunt. “But Her effect remains. I promise the job is an altruistic one, even if it does involve money.”

John frowns and puts the comb down on the sink. “Like the numbers?”

“Exactly.”

When John looks up again from the sink, Harold leans against the wall beside the basin. John drops his arm and presses the face of the phone into his thigh. Harold crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his bicep.

“Well?” John asks.

Harold shrugs, his eyes sliding back and forth across the ceiling. “You could possibly help people. Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw appear to be entirely reformed in their habits now.”

John huffs. “’Help people.’ Like the numbers, like before?”

“Maybe.” 

“But without you?”

Harold looks down from the ceiling to John again. “It’s your decision, John.”

John breathes out slowly as Harold watches him. Harold smiles then shrugs his shoulders again. John pulls the phone up to his ear.

“Thanks, Root, but I’m a police officer now. I don’t do freelance.”

“But this one time you could –”

“Goodbye, Root.” John hangs up the phone.

––––

John and Fusco run down the hall of an apartment building, John in the lead and Fusco only a few steps behind.

“Freeze!” Fusco shouts as their suspect darts down the turn at the end of the hall.

John thinks of Finch in his ear telling him which way to turn as he watches from his omniscient camera views. The two of them round the corner just in time to see the door leading to the fire escape slam closed.

“Go around the front,” John tells Fusco. “I’ve got this way.”

“Leave him at least one knee cap, all right?” Fusco says as he races in the other direction, his radio already in his hand.

John would laugh if he had the time. Instead he runs down the hall and through the door outside to the stairs. He hears the clang of the metal fire escape below. He chances a quick look over the railing and sees their man two floors below him now, still another two before he hits the street.

“NYPD!” John shouts – the acronym still feels foreign on his lips even after so much time. “Stop!”

John heads down the stairs, his gun in one hand as he uses his other to grab the bars and swing himself quickly around the corners. He moves faster than his suspect – only five’ nine” and none of John’s training – so John is only a floor behind when the man jumps to the pavement off of the extended ladder.

“Stop!” John shouts again as he swings around the last bend. 

Instead of taking the ladder to the street he vaults off the edge and hits the street into a roll. When John jumps up again a second later he does not see his quarry down the alley or out on the street.

“John, turn around!” Harold’s voice suddenly shouts.

John whirls in place with his gun up at the ready.

“Two o’clock!” Harold shouts again. 

John sees the telltale glint of a gun from the shadows. John fires his weapon where Harold indicated two seconds before a gunshot hits the brick wall behind him, screaming past his ear. He hears a shout and sees his suspect fall out of an indented doorway in the alley. He clutches at his shoulder, gun dropped on the ground. John moves forward, his gun trained on the man then kicks away the offender’s weapon.

“You’re under arrest,” John says to the man as he groans on the ground.

Then he turns his head to Harold standing beside him in the alley. Harold grins looking so relieved. John mouths, ‘thank you.’

“You’re welcome.”

At the front of the building, John hands off their suspect to another officer who shoves him into a car. A few feet away, Fusco talks to a pair of witnesses to John’s fire escape chase. It appears they corroborate John’s description of events down to the suspect readying the gun and John magically turning just in time to avoid his own death. Fusco keeps glancing at John every so often. So John walks away around the other side of the car where he cannot see Fusco.

Harold waits beside the car, watching the traffic move slowly by, rubbernecking over the scene.

“They always want to know as they drive by but they don’t care ten seconds later once they’re past.”

“The joy of humanity, Finch.”

Harold turns to John and smiles. “No harm.”

John lowers his voice. “Finch…” 

“Yes, John?”

“How did…” John gestures vaguely toward the alleyway. “How did you do that?”

Harold stares at John then tilts his head. “Is that really what you want to ask me, John?”

John presses his lips together and does not respond. He cannot admit the truth out loud yet.

––––

John picks at the chicken in the container on the table in front of him, somewhat clumsy with his chopsticks tonight after a long day. Harold smiles and shakes his head at John's temporary lack of dexterity. It makes John only want to fumble more.

“John?”

Harold keeps smiling at John. “Do you remember how many times we got Chinese takeout when we worked on the numbers?”

“John?”

John chuckles. “Too many times.” 

Harold purses his lips. “And to think I had been a healthy eater.”

“Too many times, what, John?”

John turns his head sharply at the tone in Iris' voice. “What?”

“You said too many times?” She gestures with her chopsticks over her white take out box. “Too many times what?”

“I, uh...”

Iris glances in the direction of Harold seated in the chair across from her. John tries not to follow her eyes to the same spot.

“What were you looking at, John?” Iris asks warily.

John focuses on his Kung Pow though he still sees Harold watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Nothing, Iris.”

––––

John tells Fusco he plans to meet Iris for lunch one day in the middle of the week. He puts a note on his desk and shuts off his phone. Instead of meeting Iris, John heads home, unlocks the door to the empty house and sits down on the couch in the living room. He does not have to ask, stupidly saying ‘hello’ to the air or anything of the like. Harold is already there when John sits. 

“John?” Harold shifts, one leg bent up on the cushions so he can face John. “You want to talk?”

“You know what I’m thinking.” Harold smiles but says nothing. John keeps his feet on the floor, facing forward. He breathes in once then turns his head toward Harold again. “You’re a hallucination.”

Harold smirks in an amused way. “Unless you believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I’m a hallucination. You knew that.”

John nods. “I needed to say it.”

“You did.” Harold moves his arm up to rest on the back of the couch. “So?”

“So what do I do about you?”

“Well, I believe your Dr. Campbell has attempted to get you to talk about what is upsetting you on several occasions already.”

John grits his teeth and turns away from Harold. He props his elbow up on the arm of the couch and runs a hand over his face. “I know what is upsetting me.” He drops his hand and looks at Harold again. “Talking won’t bring you back.”

Harold shakes his head. “It won’t.”

“So why bother, what good would it do?” John growls. “If I told Iris, if I told anyone all it would do would be lose me my job.” Harold’s mouth quirks a little at the word ‘job’ but John ignores it. “Working is all that distracts me as it is.”

“And Iris.”

John’s brow furrows. “Iris?”

“Iris distracts you.”

“She’s not a distraction,” John counters.

Harold shrugs. “All right.”

John sighs heavily and turns away from Harold. He considers standing up and going back to the station right now. Just the idea of having a sit down to talk with his hallucination is crazy enough, let alone an argument about his psyche. John shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even talk to you.”

“But you are.”

John turns sharply, his knee up on the couch mirroring Harold now. “If I stop talking to you, will you go away?”

“I’m your hallucination, John.” Harold gestures with his palm up toward John. “You are the one with the answers.”

“If I had the answer to why you are here I wouldn’t need to ask you.”

“You haven’t asked me, John,” Harold corrects. John blinks quickly, opens his mouth then shuts it again. Harold is right. Harold nods at John’s thought. “You confirmed what I am but you haven’t asked me why.”

“If I did, would you answer me?”

“I already told you I don’t have the answers.”

“But if you are just a projection of my own…” John stops over the word grief. “If you are part of my mind, can’t you still tell me?”

Harold smiles but this time the expression is sad. “I don’t know if that’s how it works.”

“Well, then make it work that way, Finch!”

Harold puts up both hands in a casual surrender. “I’m not the one in control.”

“You were,” John whispers. “You always were the one with the answers before.”

“But I’m dead now, John.” Harold’s voice has a harsh edge to it now. “You have to find your own answers.”

John shakes his head hard then turns away from Harold. He leans over so his elbows rest on his thighs. He stares at the floor. He keeps repeating the same thing in his head, ‘I can’t, I don’t want to.’

“You don’t have a choice, John,” Harold retorts.

If John were to look back later, if he had the chance, he might see this as the point where Harold began to change.

––––

John sits at a diner before work. He woke up at five this morning and could not fall asleep again. So he found a diner which opened at six and thought why not actually have some proper breakfast? John stares at his coffee mug, the same generic, thick white ceramic mugs found in thousands of diners across the country. The specific diner is unfamiliar to John; he purposely chose one he never visited with Harold before.

“Hoping I wouldn’t come?”

John looks up at Harold now sitting across the booth from him. He glances at his mug, turns it in a slow circle before he leans back against the booth. “’But it’s you, John, not the diner.’ Is that what you’d say?”

Harold raises his eyebrows with an amused smirk. “That sounds like me.”

“Have you been to this diner?”

Harold shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Can’t visit every diner in New York, right?”

“Might have a harder time in New Jersey.”

John laughs at that and picks up his coffee mug. He takes a sip, the liquid just a notch on the side of too hot. He puts the mug down on the table again and stares at Harold. Part of him wants to tell Harold to leave while another part begs him to stay. Harold puts his hands up on the table and clasps his fingers together.

“Early start to the day?”

“You’re here, you know that.”

“You do have a heavy case load right now.”

“It’s New York; every detective has a heavy case load.”

Harold nods. “We had the same when we worked the numbers.”

John’s mouth pinches but he keeps Harold’s eye contact. “Practically every day.”

“But you liked it that way.”

John nods. “I did.”

Harold sits very still, his hands on the table and his back straight. Harold was never particularly fidgety in life. Yet there is a difference now in how Harold seems as John’s hallucination. He makes deliberate motions – hands on the table, sitting on the couch, leaning against a wall. Does he only move when John wills it? Does John have control over Harold’s actions? Or is he moving with John, somehow connected to John’s own rises and falls and when John is still so is he?

“I am not exactly a mirror, John,” Harold says. “But perhaps you are right.”

John’s jaw tightens. “I’m not even safe in my own head now?”

“Because I am in your head, John.”

John shuts his eyes and shakes his head slowly. Harold used to call him Mr. Reese. Now it's John every time. Somehow that first name intimacy makes it harder to turn away. John has to fight this; he has to fight Harold.

“Eggs Benedict?” John opens his eyes and looks up. The waiter stands beside his table holding a plate of eggs. He clears his throat. “Your order?”

“Yes,” John says hoarsely.

The man nods and puts the plate down in front of John then walks away again. John picks up his fork and stares down at his plate. He is not hungry now.

“How many times did we do this, John?” John looks up at Harold. “How many diners across this city did we sit in talking about a number or Samaritan or what type of dog food to get Bear?”

John’s lip quirks up a bit at that.

“You’ve counted every one, haven’t you?” Harold says. “And you haven’t been to a single one since.”

“There are enough places to eat in this city, easy to avoid a few.”

“But I’m not in those diners, John.” Harold leans forward slightly over the table. “I’m right here.”

John sets his fork down on the edge of his plate. “But you’re not really here.”

“No.” Harold’s face falls. “No, I’m not here. I’m dead.”

John breathes in deeply and fists his hands on the table. 

Harold smiles in a grim way. He shakes his head slowly then whispers. “Be careful, John, that guilt could eat you alive.”

––––

John and Iris watch Casablanca on their television. Iris adores old movies, not so far back as silent film, but the 1940s and 50s hold particular fascination.

“Film was still new, still changing with form and camera angles.” Iris pulls out DVDs of black and white classics. “You can watch the art style develop. The leading man or woman, the romantic staples and then someone like Hitchcock coming along to turn things on their head.”

“Did you major in film?” John jokes.

Iris laughs. “I almost minored in it, took quite a few electives.”

Forty minutes into Casablanca, however, Iris hand creeps up John’s thigh and he kisses her, the movie turning into just a back drop. Perhaps the action is high school of them, kissing on the couch to a movie while one of their parents are just a room away on a school night, but who put an age limit on different types of intimacy? If they want to make out on the couch in their house then the movie can wait.

Iris shifts into his lap and John grips her hips tightly, her hands sliding up and down his toned chest. Her breath quickens and she moves her kisses down to his neck, nipping at his pulse point. John gasps, bites his lip and turns his head to give her more access, closes his eyes. When he opens his eyes again Harold sits beside him on the couch. John’s hands clench on Iris hips but his CIA training stops him from jolting away in surprise or throwing Iris to the floor.

Harold smiles and just watches John for a moment as Iris sucks on John’s neck. “Is she really what you want?” Harold asks.

John shifts, tries to slide them away from Harold if only a little.

Harold chuckles, props his elbow up on the edge of the couch and rest his head on his curled up fist. “Would I be here right now if she was all you wanted?”

John opens his mouth, wants to protest then Iris kisses his lips again. John closes his eyes, tries to focus on her, on her mouth and her curves under his hands. Iris laughs into his mouth, pulls back so he opens his eyes again. She smiles in an entirely lascivious way then slides down his torso. John cannot stop his eyes from turning to the right again. Harold smiles back at him, the expression tilted the wrong way.

“So that answers that question.”

John wants to say something, to tell Harold to go, to apologize, to stop staring at him. Harold does not look at Iris, only stares into John’s eyes as Iris pulls at the top of John’s pants.

“Which one of us are you betraying, John?” Harold asks. 

––––

John shuts the front door behind himself, the lights still off in the house with Iris out having a ‘ladies night’ with some friends. He drops his keys into the waiting glass bowl then pivots abruptly in place, gun up in his hand.

“Good to see all that desk work hasn’t dulled your reflexes.”

John flips the light on then drops his arm again when he sees Shaw. “Not as good as yours would have been.”

She purses her lip in ascent. “Need your help.”

John puts the police issue gun back into his holster. “With what?”

“What else, a job.”

“I’m not an assassin anymore, Shaw, and there is no Machine for me to work for either. I told Root that the last time she called.”

“Didn’t realize one rejection meant you were off the board.”

John walks past where Shaw perches on the back of the couch, “It does,” then through the dining room and into the kitchen to the left.

“Reese.” John turns back from the refrigerator toward Shaw standing in the doorway. “Not even going to let me tell you about the job?”

“It’s your job, Shaw, I’ve got a salary.”

Shaw gives him a look. “When has it ever been about the money?”

“I’m sure you and Root can handle it.”

“Sometimes it helps to have a third.”

John opens the refrigerator and takes out one beer. “From what I remember you do pretty well all on your own.”

“What is with you, Reese?” Shaw asks abruptly. “You’re playing house here, is that it?”

“Shaw…”

“Did you even like being a cop when we were fighting Samaritan? Cause it sure didn’t look like it. And you left this girl once, now it’s all dinner and movies?” Shaw frowns. “This is not you.”

“It has to be,” John says through tight lips as he pops the top off the beer.

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Right.”

“You don’t know, Shaw.”

“You’re just running from us because we remind you of Harold,” Shaw says bluntly.

John bangs the beer bottle down on the counter. Shaw does not flinch. John stares at her, wants to tell her she is wrong.

“But she’s not.” Harold stands with his arms crossed over his chest in the other half of the doorway to the dining room beside Shaw. Harold gestures with one hand toward Shaw. “What are you going to say, ‘I just don’t like you anymore?’”

“Maybe,” John says.

Harold raises his eyebrows.

Shaw sighs and her aggressive stance eases somewhat. “We miss him too, you know.”

“Even you, Shaw?”

Shaw shrugs one shoulder. “In my way.”

“My way isn’t your way.”

“Your way never seems to work so well.”

Harold snorts once then walks away from the door and lazily toward John. John forces himself not to glare at Harold or move out of the way. Instead he shakes his head at Shaw. “The answer is no, Shaw. I am not interested in your freelance work. You two can handle it alone and I can keep my ‘desk job.’”

Shaw watches him for two beats then shrugs. “Fine.”

John steps toward her and holds out the beer. “Thanks for stopping by.”

She frowns at him, looks at the beer, back up to his face again then takes the beer. She chugs down a third of the beer then hands it back to him. “Wouldn’t want some cop to stop me for drinking in public.”

John just smiles in a thin line.

Shaw turns to walk out but stops before she moves further than a step. She turns back around and looks at him. “Look, Reese… are you all right?”

John stares at her. The question is so strange coming from her, the one who could barely tell Root she even liked her without using insults instead. John wonders if he looks as terrible as he feels.

“You could tell her the truth,” Harold suggests as he stops beside John.

John girts his teeth, does not look at Harold, keeps Shaw’s eye contact. “I’m fine.”

Harold leans closer, whispers in John’s ear, “Are you sure about that?” 

––––

John finishes tying his shoe, ready for another day of pretending to be a police officer, when Harold sits down beside him on the end of the bed.

“Good morning, John.”

John turns to look at him, past the point of trying to fight it now. “Harold.”

Harold's eyes tick up and down John once as he smiles. “Still the man in the suit.”

“It's appropriate for work.”

Harold chuckles. “But no tie like Detective Fusco.”

“Why start now?”

“Yes, you always left the ties to me.” Harold adjusts the purple paisley tie about his neck for emphasis.

John wants to reach out and touch Harold, to fix Harold's tie himself even though it is perfectly in place. He keeps his hands flat on the covers of the bed. “You always looked better in the full suit than I did.”

Harold keeps on smiling. “It's a matter of opinion.”

“What do you want, Harold?” John whispers.

Harold cocks his head, a sharp angle which Harold could never complete in life. “Is this a metaphysical question? 'What do you want' but you are really asking 'what do I want' because I am not real.”

John huffs. “That's just like you.”

“Or like you?”

“What do you want right now, Harold, why are you here?”

“Why am I here this morning as you finish tying your shoes for a day at the office?” Harold crosses his arms over his chest and purses his lips. “Hmm. What is it about right now that has brought me here? What are you thinking about?” He flutters his fingers in the crook of his arm. “Is it an anniversary? Is it the day we first met?”

“No.”

Harold grins. “Maybe I saw you first.”

John smiles at that. “I know you did, Harold.” Harold keeps on smiling – John thinks maybe he is always smiling when John sees him now. John's face falls. “This isn't good, Finch.”

“You could just leave, John.” He waves one hand toward the bedroom door. “You could stand up and go to work.”

John stares at the door. He could. He could stand up, walk away, and ignore this hallucination which grows more vivid each time. It would be the right thing to do, the safer thing to do. “I could,” he says to Harold.

“But you won't,” Harold whispers back.

Then Harold stands up and turns to face John. He is wearing his deep brown suit with darker pinstripes, three piece as always. The pocket square in his pocket matches the tie with small touches of purple but also boasts brighter reds which heighten the brown of the suit. It is excellent fashion sense, as always. Harold grins, obviously knowing every thought John thinks. He holds out his hands and spins once in place. Then he paces slowly from side to side.

“Was this one of your favorites?” Harold asks.

John shakes his head. “I don't know. Sometimes it's hard to remember them specifically.”

Harold waves his fingers in the air. “They all blur together into some idea of 'fashionable' instead?”

John huffs but the more he thinks, the more specifics he remembers. He remembers a pale gray suit with a plaid pattern and a red tie. He remembers the tan suit Harold wore in Italy with a bright orange tie. He remembers a velvet, deep blue vest which matched that same orange tie. He remembers simple black pinstripes with cube patterned ties. He remembers a red tie with a symmetrical yellow flower pattern, classic business, from the day John met him wild and ragged and alone waiting to be found.

“Or perhaps,” Harold says interrupting John's revere, “you simply have not allowed yourself to remember before.”

“I don't need to remember your suits to remember you, Finch.”

“But they are a part of me,” Harold says as he paces, “a symbol of me. Now whenever you see a man on the street in a three piece suit, it is me you think of.”

John watches him move, the shift of his pants and the fluttering of his suit jacket. It is languid and elegant and, “you're not limping.”

Harold smiles. “No.”

John frowns watching him walk back and forth completely unencumbered. “Why?”

“I'm a hallucination, John, why do I do anything?” John swallows but does not respond. Harold watches him and holds up a hand, very like a professor. “Perhaps, you are turning me into an idealized memory.”

“No.”

“No?” Harold tilts his head then gestures at the motion. “Yet I am moving like this?”

“I never wanted to change you.”

Harold stops walking directly in front of John. “Then how do you explain this?”

“I...” John shakes his head. “I can't.”

Harold steps closer, leans in so his face is inches from John's. “Perhaps it is easier to accept an idealized form of me because remembering my infirmities means remembering I could be hurt, that I was hurt once, and that I was hurt again, that I died on your watch.”

John breathes in sharply and has to shut his eyes. His fingers dig into the soft covers and his breathing comes heavy and fast. He breathes in through his nose and bites his teeth together. He thinks of Harold's face, bloody and staring and dead. When he opens his eyes, the Harold standing in front of him is gone.

––––

At dinner out with Iris, they eat Italian in Little Italy. The restaurant is small and obviously family owned with just enough tables covered by classic red and white checked table cloths. The dim light gives the place a romantic atmosphere and John reaches for Iris' hand across the table as they both twirl long pasta on their forks.

Then John hears Harold's voice right beside his ear. “Do you think she's enough?” John breathes in deeply and does not turn to look. “Do you think she can replace me?”

John jerks his hand back from Iris then stares down into his bowl, ignoring Iris' noise of confusion. He forces himself not to reach for an absent figure standing beside him.

––––

“John, can I have a word?”

John looks up at Iris standing beside his desk at the station.

“Iris?”

“Can I have a word?” Iris repeats.

Across from his desk, Fusco raises both eyebrows at John. John shoots Fusco a glare then looks at Iris again. “I’m a bit busy.”

“You have five minutes,” she says then backs up a step. “Now.”

John blinks twice then stands up. She marches to one of the empty interview rooms, opens the door and holds it open for John. He walks in and turns around again once she closes the door behind her.

“What’s going on, Iris?”

“You’re going on, that’s what.”

“I am?”

She gives him an unamused look. “You sleep maybe four hours a night, John. You are tense, tenser than usual. You won’t talk to me. You bury yourself in your work.”

“It’s nothing, Iris, I’m fine.”

“I’ve been trying to give you time, to give you space.”

“I’m fine,” John repeats.

“I’m a therapist, John, I know the tells and you told me enough yourself. Something happened to you, you lost someone.”

“I never said I did,” John says harshly. “You thought what you wanted to think.” 

“Careful, John,” Harold says. John glances to the right where Harold lounges against the frosted window. “You’re not playing this game as well as you used to.”

“You have been through a trauma,” Iris insists bringing John’s eyes back to her, “it is obvious.”

John shakes his head. “I have been through plenty before; this isn’t anything I can’t handle.”

Iris scoffs loudly. “That is bullshit, John.” John’s eyes widen. Iris rarely curses. “Do you think I don't see what is happening to you?”

“Nothing is happen –"

“That I don't notice when you're looking over my shoulder and not at me? I've heard you talking to yourself when you're alone John.” 

“You don't know anything about it, Iris!”

Iris’ mouth clicks shut at John’s sudden outburst.

Harold laughs in a sharp, clipped sound. “You had to pick her to go to after me, didn’t you, someone to call you on your stoic man act? Are you hoping she will really figure it out and lock you away?”

“I know even the strongest people can be effected by trauma, by loss,” Iris starts again. “You are not immune.”

“No,” John snaps at both of them. “No. I can handle it on my own.”

“So you admit something is wrong,” Iris counters.

“Uh oh,” Harold says. John sees him cross his arms and make a face. Harold stands up from his lean and walks languidly across the room behind Iris. “She laid a nice little trap for you there.”

John shakes his head. “That’s not it.”

“No?” Iris and Harold say at the same time.

John breathes in deeply and keeps his eyes focused on Iris. “I told you the war I was in, it was… it’s not something I could tell anyone about, even a therapist.”

“Because it was illegal?” Iris asks. 

“Something like that.”

“You can find a way, John,” she insists. “You can do something, you need to do something because this normal, everyday, go about your life is not working for you, not when I wake up to empty beds practically every night or when I see your hands shake.” John balls his hands into fists. “Something is eating you away inside so you need to get it out.”

John holds his breath, thinks that maybe for a moment he could tell her. He could just say: I lost my partner, my best friend, someone I wanted as so much more. He died and now I am seeing him, really seeing him everywhere.

“Could you really tell her that, though, John?” Harold says, standing right beside John now. “You don’t know what she would say, what she might do.”

“I’ll do something,” John capitulates. “I promise. I’ll talk to someone.”

“I can recommend…”

“I’ll find someone,” John says. “Please trust me.”

Iris looks at him for a moment, her eyes boring into his. He wonders if she looks deep enough will she see Harold too?

“Okay, John,” she says. “I trust you.” She pauses, rubs a hand over her skirt then crosses her arms. “Is there… is there anything you want to tell me?” She cocks her head. “Anything that might help?”

“I love you less than my dead boss,” Harold says harshly at Iris’ side.

John tenses and has to work very hard not to shout at Harold, not to turn and break something. He stares at the floor for two counts then looks up at Iris. “Not yet.”

She nods once. “All right.” She glances at the windows. “I suppose we should get back to work.”

Then she turns and walks to the door. Behind her back, John turns to stare at Harold. 

Harold grins and shakes his head, almost admiringly. “I just call them like I see them, John.” He pursues his lips. “Like you see them. What do you imagine she would think if you told her that you prefer to listen to your hallucination’s advice more than hers?”

“You’re hard to fight,” John says quietly as Iris walks out the door.

Harold takes three steps until he stands close, his voice just a whisper. “You like it that way.”

–––––

John stares at himself in the mirror as he straightens his tie for his department meeting today. Iris told him it looked fine before she left to meet her first client of the day ten minutes ago but John doubts her assurance. Ties always appear crooked on him, always tilting just to the left. Perhaps his body is just enough asymmetrical to always misalign his ties.

“Or perhaps you need a more practiced hand?”

John glances at Harold standing beside him, just out of view of the mirror's reflection. “You want to fix my tie?”

“I can.”

John sighs and looks back at his own reflection. “No, you can't.”

John tightens his tie unnecessarily then turns away from the mirror in the opposite direction of Harold. He walks over to the bed and picks up his badge, clipping it onto his belt. He blows out a breath and stares at the bare wall over the bed. He hopes when he turns around that no one stands waiting. (He also lies to himself).

John turns around to see Harold smiling at him – the expression seems fierce somehow. “I'm still here and you're not really upset about that.”

John clears his throat once. “No.”

Harold's smile changes to one more genuine. “I'm here for you, John. I'm here because you need to see me.”

John shakes his head. “But why?”

“I can't answer that.”

“I have to know,” John to continues.

“If you want to know that is.”

John frowns. “Why wouldn't I? Why wouldn't I want to know why I keep seeing you when you're not here!” John snaps. “Why wouldn't I want to figure out what is going on in my head?”

Harold watches him for a moment then breathes in deeply. “Because you don't want me to go away if you figure it out.”

John's breath suddenly turns shaky. He nods once weakly then again almost vehemently. “I don't want you to go away.”

“But I have gone, John. I'm already dead.”

John shuts his eyes and presses his lips together tightly to keep from crying out. When he opens his eyes again Harold is not gone this time but standing directly in front of him, close as can be without touching. 

“Harold...” 

John sits down heavily on the edge of the bed staring up at Harold. He wants so badly to reach out and touch Harold but cannot stand grasping only empty air instead.

“But maybe you will feel something,” Harold says. He reaches out his hand, hovering just next to John's temple. “Perhaps if you touch me right now I will be here.”

“But you're not here.”

“Are you sure?”

Then Harold's hand caresses his temple. John jerks back instantly because he felt it, he actually felt the touch. He felt Harold's smooth finger tips on his brow, just at his hair line; he felt the slight scratch of Harold's finger nail against his skin. For one blinding moment, so he remembers nothing but this very instant, Harold is real and alive and standing right in front of him. John jolts forward, ready to pull Harold into his arms but he stops at the last second, his hands tense above Harold's forearms.

“You're not real,” John gasps then repeats. “You're not real.”

Harold takes one step forward so John has to spread his legs apart and scoot back slightly on the bed to avoid Harold's knees. Harold takes another step forward so he is flush with the bed and standing completely between John's legs. He tilts his head just an inch more unnaturally than any able bodied human could. He whispers. “Are you sure?”

Harold slides his hands up over John's thighs. John sucks in a breath and pushes himself back on the bed. (He is not sure if he is running away or inviting Harold on). Harold run his hands over John's waist, thumbs snagging briefly on John's belt, then up over the fabric on John's chest. John leans back with the touch until he has to brace himself up with his hands flat on the bed behind him. Harold lifts one leg up and then the other so he crouches over John's lap on the bed. John drinks in the sight of Harold tall over him, essentially sitting in John's lap.

“How...” John gasps as Harold's fingers grip his tie.

“Because you want me to,” Harold whispers.

He loosens John's tie, pulling the short end out slowly from the knot. Once the end frees itself, Harold slides the length of the tie out of John's collar and discards it beside them on the bed. He turns back to the button on the top of John's shirt and pops it open. He slides his hand along the bare skin of John's neck. His hand is warm and real.

“And alive,” John says. “You're alive.”

“No, John,” Harold whispers, his lips close and hovering over John's. “I'm not.”

“You have to be.” John sits up straight, arches up against Harold and runs his hands up Harold's back, the fabric of his suit jacket wool and heavy. “I can feel you.” He reaches up to press his lips to Harold's. “You're real.” But Harold moves up with him, still just out of reach.

“No, John.”

“Yes,” John gasps, pushing his hands under Harold's suit jacket, under his vest. “Yes, please.”

“Are you really feeling me, John?” Harold is heavy in John's lap, legs tight against John's, the buttons of his vest pressing into John's chest. “Or are you just imaging how I would feel?”

“You can't imagine touch.” John shakes his head as he slides his one hand further up Harold's chest, rumpling Harold's waistcoat while his other hand climbs into Harold's hair. “I couldn't just be imagining this.”

“It is amazing what the human mind can do,” Harold says as his hand slides over John's cheek. 

“No, you're here. You're real!”

“Just because you can feel me, John...” Harold says and now his lips move over John's cheek as his speaks, his lips smooth with just enough stubble around them to prove he is a man – he is Harold and not Iris or anyone else. “Does that make me real?”

John tries to turn his head and push forward to press their lips together. His shoes suddenly hit the wood floor with an audible clop. John blinks once then twice. He drops his hands back into his empty lap. He looks down and sees his tie grasped in his right hand.

John calls in sick to work, brushes off Fusco's questions. He lies on his side of the bed for hours opening and closing his eyes, rubbing his hands together, hoping and fearing Harold will come back.

––––

John wakes up constantly in the middle of the night now because he feels Harold’s presence beside him. He feels Harold’s hand on his shoulder trying to turn him away from Iris. He feels the bed dip with Harold’s weight. He feels Harold’s fingers brush against his cheek. He feels Harold curled against his back so John lies sandwiched between Harold and Iris.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” John whispers desperately. “I shouldn’t be able to…”

“To feel me,” Harold answers.

John tries to turn into Harold’s embrace, tries to grip his hand when Harold touches him, tires to lean into Harold’s body beside him, or capture Harold’s lips in his. Yet every time he tries, Harold moves just out of reach, leans away or his touch disappears all together. It is always on Harold’s terms. 

“If you really wanted to touch me,” Harold says with his lips on John’s ear, “perhaps you should have tried before I died.”

It makes no sense, John cannot explain it but he cannot stop himself every time.

“I’m still dead, John,” Harold whispers.

“No…” John tries to move closer, away from Iris and into Harold. 

“If only you’d saved me.” Harold grips John’s neck so his lips brush briefly over John’s, just a ghost of touch. “Then maybe this would be real.”

––––

After the two of them walk out of an interrogation room, the suspect easily spilling the beans on his partner in murder of their boss, Fusco suddenly grips John tightly by the arm. John frowns as Fusco drags him aside under the stairs by the coffee machine.

“What is with you?”

“What?”

“You look terrible.”

“I’m fine, Lionel.” 

John tries to brush Fusco’s concern off by picking a paper cup up and pouring coffee into it. Fusco, however, is not deterred by John’s distraction tactics. 

“Nice try partner, but you can’t hide what’s on your face.” For an irrational moment John wishes he had a mirror. “You’ve got more bags under your eyes than a trophy wife at Tiffany’s.”

John frowns. “That one was weak.”

Fusco ignores John’s comment and pushes on. “I know it’s been rough since –”

John turns sharply to stare at him so Fusco cuts off his sentence. Fusco stares back at John for five seconds then sighs. “Since what happened.” Fusco clenches his jaw and makes that serious bull dog face, so like a cop. “You sleeping at all now?”

“Bad dreams?” Harold says on the other side of John, somewhere just out of sight.

“I don’t dream anymore,” John responds.

Fusco frowns at him in confusion. “Dreams?”

John looks down at his coffee cup. He sees Harold’s hands on the edge of the table beside him, his fingers too close to John’s. Harold whispers, “Because I’m here when you’re awake.”

––––

John starts to seek Harold out. He checks the corners of rooms, not for suspects or perpetrators they chase, but for Harold. When he gets home from the station and cries ‘hello’ into the house, it is Harold he wants to find.

“You don’t need to keep searching for me, John,” Harold says, lounging on the couch like a cat and nothing like Harold. “I’m always here because I’m you.”

“But I want to see you.”

Harold grins. “Then close your eyes.”

John knows he needs to stop. He should listen to Iris, find a therapist and find out how to stop this hallucination from happening. It is not healthy.

“Since when do you care about healthy?”

Harold sits on top of John’s desk, his legs hanging off the edge, obscuring John’s stack of paperwork. John runs his hand over Harold’s thigh and it feels real, like a person and not a mirage.

“You care about what you can see, not what is real.”

“I just want you here,” John admits.

John waits until Iris leaves the house for the day and sits on the end of his bed. He stares at the door way, paces back and forth, then open and closes his eyes over and over again until he sees Harold leaning against the wall or seated beside him.

“You called?”

He tries to bargain with his hallucination, just one minute more, just one more unreal touch. 

“Just touch me, Harold, please.”

“But I’m not real, John.”

“I don’t care,” John insists. He wants to push Harold back on the bed, kiss him and touch and feel Harold under him against covers and sheets, like what he always wanted and never had. “I need you.”

“But you can’t have me.” Harold stands by the window then instead of sitting on the bed like he was a moment earlier. “I’m dead.”

“I don’t care!”

“You don’t want to remember.”

John shuts his eyes and opens them again, hoping Harold will move closer. “Please.”

“You can’t have me, John, because there is nothing to have.” He appears right in front of John’s face, his stance aggressive and his expression angry. “I’m not here, I’m you. I’m dead.”

“No…”

“I’m dead and gone!” Harold shouts. “Because you didn’t save me!”

––––

Iris and John work side by side in the kitchen, just the two of them, quiet and peaceful like when they first started. It feels like a reprieve. Iris chops onions with goggles on her face. It should be ridiculous but John finds it endearing and it makes him smile. She grins back at him and just points at the goggles.

“No tears.”

“You have tears enough for both of you, John, don't you,” Harold says from beside Iris.

John’s expression falls.

“My dad used to do this.” Iris says as John stares at Harold on the other side of her away from John. “I always thought it was stupid until I tried it.”

“Aren't you tired of her yet, John?” Harold asks. “You left her once.” Then he reaches out his hand to cover hers on the knife. “It would be easy to lose her again.”

“Don't!” John shouts suddenly and drops the plate of raw steak he holds in his rush to grab Iris away from Harold. The plate shatters on the floor making Iris jump back before John touches her. Her knife drops with a clatter on the floor, narrowly missing both their feet.

“John!” She pulls off her goggles and grips his arm. “John, what is going on?”

John shakes his head staring at Harold over her shoulder who just keeps on smiling.

“John, look at me.” He looks at her. Her face appears grim and her hands clench on his arms. “Talk to me, something is wrong!”

“Iris, I was…”

Iris squeezes his arm. “I asked you to see someone, someone to help you…”

“I didn’t; I haven’t.”

Iris sighs heavily and she pats his arm with her other hand. “John, this is enough. You have to talk to someone. I know something is wrong.”

John shakes his head.

“John, stop lying to me!”

Harold grins behind her and shrugs his shoulder, his face almost comical he smiles so widely.

“I just want it to stop,” John says half to her and half to Harold. “I can't do this...”

“I am calling a colleague of mine right now,” Iris says. “We need to get you some help. You can’t wait. This is serious. Don't move.”

She steps out of the room into the dining room to get her cell phone.

“There is a way to make this stop, John.” John's eyes shift to Harold still standing in front of him.

Harold raises his eyebrows and makes a 'click click' noise out of the side of his mouth with a tap of his finger on his temple. His meaning is plain.

John swallows and shakes his head once. “Harold would never tell me to do that.”

Harold laughs and the sound is nothing like him. “But I'm not Harold, am I?”

––––

John sits across from a man wearing a plum argyle sweater. He carries about ten extra pounds around his middle, one day of stubble on his chin and bitten nails. But his shoes are sharp, his hair well combed and his eyes bright blue. His stance reminds John of one of his first CIA handlers before he paired up with Kara and Mark but his eyes look far too much like Harold. His name is Dr. Gold, like Gold Finch.

“Iris mentioned you’d experienced some trauma recently,” he says, his body leaning forward, inviting not threatening. “I know you are a police officer, was this experience on the job?”

“You could say that.”

Gold tilts his head and puts his palms together. “Now that’s something of a non-answer, Detective Riley. If I am going to help you, you need to be honest with me.”

“I just met you,” John says sharply. On another day, John may have answered with more finesse but his nerves are worn thin.

Gold nods and leans back in his chair, giving John more space. “You’re right; it’s only our first meeting.” He pauses, writes something on his pad then puts his hands together again. “But we need to start somewhere. Iris told me you’ve been distracted, closed off. How are you sleeping?”

“Not well,” John admits.

Gold smiles at John’s moment of openness. “I’m going to be honest with you as well, John, Iris seems to think there was some event, something violent, be it on the job or not which is causing PTSD-like symptoms in you.”

“She doesn’t know the half of it, does she?” Harold says. He leans against the back of Dr. Gold’s chair, his legs at an acute angle and his arms crossed. John can look at Harold without really looking away from Gold. Harold laughs. “Good spot for me so you’re less crazy, is that it?”

“Something did happen,” John says softly. Gold and Harold both perk up with vastly different expressions. “But I can’t tell her.”

“So this is causing some of the tension?” Gold surmises.

“Yes.”

“But there’s more?”

“No,” Harold says.

“I…” John swallows and forcibly relaxes his tense limbs. “There are always pressures which come with being a cop.”

“But something specific happened?”

“I let the man I loved be shot to death,” Harold says, his posture casual but his eyes stern. “Is that what you want to say, John?”

“No.”

“No?” Gold repeats

“I was undercover a couple years ago, I think…”

“Good answer, John,” Harold coaches. “Now try something about ‘difficulty reintegrating.’”

“I think I’ve had some difficulty reintegrating to a normal life,” John parrots.

Gold nods, writes a note on his pad while Harold smiles like a predator right behind him.

“Do you feel your intimacy with Iris is bringing some of these issues up?” Gold gestures with a roll to his wrist. “The two of you move in together and things become complicated.”

“Or maybe crowded,” Harold says with a tone of sarcasm.

“Complicated,” John repeats.

“You have to give him something,” Harold says. “The less time you are here the better and you can’t tell him you’re seeing a dead man leaning on the back of his chair.”

“It’s just difficult continuing life out of the job,” John tries for Gold’s waiting expression.

“Intimacy can be frightening, especially after a prolonged absence of it,” Gold says as he writes another note; he clearly believes he has the run of John’s issues now.

“You should talk to him about guilt, John,” Harold says. “You certainly have an abundance to share.”

When John walks out of the doctor’s office, Iris waits in a chair directly across from the door. She stands up and immediately attaches herself to his side.

“So,” Iris asks carefully, “did he work out?” Her clever way of asking a multitude of questions.

“Yeah, I think so,” John replies.

“Very well,” Harold says from John’s other side, “not one meaningful thing given away.”

“That’s good,” Iris says. “It’s good you’re trying.” Then she lets go of his arm to open the door leading out of the office.

“Yes,” Harold whispers as he leans in and kisses John’s temple so it burns like fire. “Good boy.”

––––

John sits on the back porch of the house. Neither John nor Iris sits on the porch often. The backyard is small and not much more than a strip of grass. Iris said she always meant to take up gardening, make it more cheery, but it has yet to happen. A pair of outdoor chairs man the porch alone, weatherworn but useable. John slumps in one chair, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the other chair. His watch reads three AM.

“Harold?”

“Yes, John?”

John turns to Harold sitting beside him now, the bottle of Jack Daniels back in John’s hand.

“Do you remember Leila, our baby number?” John takes a swig of the whiskey. “We were parents for a day.”

“And she chewed on one of your gas grenades.”

John snorts, laughs and takes another drink. “But you knew how to change a diaper.”

“I was full of surprises.”

“You were.” John reaches toward Harold but his hand falls down in the air between them instead.

John drops the bottle onto the wood of the porch, the bottle wobbling but not falling over. He shifts in his seat in an attempt to sit up but he ends up slumped back the way he was.

Harold chuckles. “Now you want to reminisce about when we first met.”

“You saved me, Harold.”

“Which is why you’re still talking to me on your porch when you know I’m not really here?”

“You’re here, Finch,” John slurs.

Harold tilts his head. “Philosophically perhaps? As a figure in your memory? Because I’m not physically here, John; no one sits in this chair.”

“Please, Harold,” John pleads, lolling to one side of the chair closer to Harold, “can’t you just…”

“Just what, John?”

“Just talk to me,” John reaches, tries to touch Harold.

“If I’m what you want, John, then come get me.” Suddenly one of John’s guns rests in Harold’s hands. “You know where I am.”

John runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “I can’t.”

“Why not?" Harold passes the gun back and forth between his hands. 

“You wouldn’t want me to,” John says but his voice sounds faint.

“If it has really come to this point that you are talking to me, a man who isn’t here, more than anyone else…” John looks down and the gun is in his hand as Harold speaks. “Why not join me?”

––––

“John?”

“Root.”

“To what do I owe this resurrection of familiarity?”

“Can’t a friend check in?” John asks as he shifts the phone to his other ear and he thinks he sounds more like Root than himself.

“I’m not sure how much we were ever friends, John, more like work colleagues in war working toward a similar goal.”

John frowns then nods to himself. “That’s true.” John stares at the dark wood of the dining room table in front of him. “Harold is what held us together.”

“Yes…” Root replies quietly. Then she clears her throat and brightness returns to her voice. “But you went through the effort to find out our number now, so...” She makes an impressed noise. Then she breathes in audibly. “Sorry, Shaw’s in the shower if you wanted to say hi.”

“I wanted to talk to you, Root.”

“I’m blushing, John. So what’s up Mr. NYPD?”

“Root, you… you cared about, Harold.”

There is a pause. “Yes.”

“As much as…” John trails off because did anyone since maybe Grace care about Harold as much as John did?

“What are you asking me, John?” Root asks gently.

“Do you ever see him?” John asks in a rush.

“See him? Like in places we’d been or things I remember?”

“No.” John sits up, leaning over the table as if she were there with him. “See him, really see him.”

The line remains silent for a minute. “John, what are you saying?”

“No, John.” Harold’s voice vibrates close and inescapable in John’s ear. “It’s just you.”

“John?”

“Goodbye, Root.”

“Wait, what are –“

John hangs up the phone and drops the cell onto the dining room table, his hand shaking.

Harold hovers by John’s side, one hand on John’s chair and the other on the table so he looms above John like a cloud in the sky blocking out the sun.

“You’re alone, John,” Harold says with blue eyes eclipsing the room. “But you don’t have to be.”

––––

John sits on the edge of the bed in his bedroom. Iris left over an hour ago, a smile and a kiss and nothing in John’s heart. John watches the door just waiting, waiting for him.

“You only have to ask.” Harold sits on the edge of the bed beside John. “I’m always here.”

John thinks about Harold at his computer, the intense look as he hacked a restricted government site. He thinks of Harold jumping from his car and supporting John’s weight after John was shot. He thinks about waking up to Harold’s concerned face, his hands wrapping a knife wound, his hands on John’s temple to check his temperature; his voice saying John’s name in concern, his voice always over the com in John’s ear.

“I miss you,” John says quietly, leaning in to Harold.

Harold does not move away. His eyes are sympathetic and focused on John, just like they use to be, just like his Harold.

“I wish you were really here,” John says.

He thinks of Harold in a tuxedo and bowtie, fixing John’s own bowtie as they walk into a museum gala. He thinks of Harold sitting beside him in a dark movie theater, legs touching and John’s heart racing. He thinks of Harold smiling at him – waking up in the library on the couch at John’s touch on his arm, rigging up the new hideout in the subway, at seeing John alive like no one else in the world mattered – smiling just for John.

“How do you feel about me, Finch? You were the most important thing to me.”

“I can’t tell you, John.” Harold runs a hand over John’s hair. “I’m not really him.”

“I know,” John replies. “You told me when we met that we’d both probably wind up dead.” John shakes his head. “I always thought that meant together.”

Harold leans in slowly then kisses John’s lips once, perfectly real. “Then come with me, John.”

John thinks of Harold when they had to walk away and hide from Samaritan. He thinks of the stricken look on Harold’s face when he thought the Machine was dead. He thinks of Harold’s face splattered with blood as he fell to the ground gasping in John’s useless hands.

“I miss you,” John says again.

Harold touches his cheek and kisses John again and this time it is just a dream. “Then come with me.”

John slides back over the bed, keeping Harold’s eye contact. He reaches under his pillow and pulls out the gun from underneath it.

“Okay, Harold,” he says.

John stands up from the bed and watches Harold’s bright blue eyes still staring back into his. Harold sits straight, back stiff, hands in his lap, smile hesitant but honest and his gaze sure; he looks like John’s Harold, the real one, the Harold who saved his life once. Now John can give it back.

“Okay, Harold.”

John clicks off the safety, puts the gun to his head and pulls the trigger.


End file.
